


Still On The Line

by Linedragon (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Series: Theme: O teu olhar derradeiro [3]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, Loneliness, M/M, Man Out of Time, Other, Road Trips, Song Lyrics, Song: Wichita Lineman, Songfic, all the relationships checked for finding sorry about that, lyrical, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-09-06 01:56:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20283493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Linedragon
Summary: In the heat of summer, with the heat rising off the road, the telephone poles gradually materialize out of this far, distant perspective and rush towards you. And then, as it happened, I suddenly looked up at one of these telephone poles and there was a man on top, talking on a telephone.He was gone very quickly, and I had another twenty-five miles of solitude to meditate on this apparition.- Jimmy Webb, via BBCDay or night.Summer or winter.Steve Rogers is on the road.





	Still On The Line

**Author's Note:**

> [[**LISTEN HERE**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8P_xTBpAcY) yt offsite]   
Jimmy Webb always said that he hadn't finished writing this song. So, hope for all y'all who are posting your WIPs. (Note: still not here, taking 5 min to post; written in August.)   
Like how _Jolene_ is still a meme... even though this song was partly a commercial reaction to the popularity of the singer-songwriter sound, Steve would recognize its roots in country music and Western music. Which used to be separate categories (the term 'hillbilly' fell out of favor while Steve was still Stateside in most canons); it was regional the way rap is regional today. There was more of this intro, e.g. The Grand Ole Opry, and The National Barn Dance, but it turns out Ken Burns has a documentary, so maybe he won't erase the poor // POC // women's contributions.   
Naturally this song does not belong to me, nor does this character, no profit nor claim made. Glen Campbell sings it (above link) recorded along with a lengthy list of session musicians [[offsite G books](https://books.google.com/books?id=6n2UDwAAQBAJ&pg=PT419&lpg=PT419&ots=DCJ1QfoSck&sig=ACfU3U0hnFn2m5NuwvA2jtv2QT1KP9kwcA&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwia15zlqIrkAhVNmK0KHbKJDKUQ6AEwAHoECAkQAQ#v=onepage&q=Wichita%20Lineman&f=false)]. I urge you to view at least one of Campbell's live performances, too. As for us late Twentieths, _Wichita Lineman_ falls into a folk/country space, unplugged before 'unplugged' existed. Though classed as 'easy listening', honestly if you get out of the 'middle of the road' cover artists, these songs will %*@#&$ wreck you. 
> 
> (That was it. That was your warning.)

Steve Rogers is riding on a highway. The headlight stays on, night or day — he learned about daytime running lights while studying for his new licenses, and was briefed on the capacity of the battery in his machine.

He isn't wearing a helmet. They'd have to catch him. If they did, they'd let him go.

He's Captain America.

He's wearing a portable radio, made of cheap plastic, in a bright color. The kind that went out of fashion decades ago.

Someone from this century made fun of him for it. 'Not even satellite radio!' He smiled. Ran a thumb over the coated antenna, flexible as the rubber tip of a baby bottle, remembered hauling a wire-and-metal contraption up the side of a cliff, under fire, to catch a signal.

He passes a mile marker. His enhanced memory picks up the number and keeps it.

Violins break through the rush of the road.

He's missed the low twang of the opening bass. It's a full orchestra. The kind dressed in cheap tuxes and stuffed in a pit or a corner bandstand, not a soloist plugged into an electric amplifier.

Tinkling notes like heat off pavement. A sweet opening cascade. More abrupt than usual. More hasty than he's used to.

> I am a lineman for the county...   
And I drive the main road 

It's a strange echo of his condition. It's a male voice, clarion-clear. Steve's recent studies dredge up 'country music' or perhaps 'folk music'. His heart recalls backcountry tunes out of Appalachia, and ballads from out West, a slice of lonesome reality outside the variety shows and jaunty barn dances. Places beyond Brooklyn come to life.

He was never truly prepared for the vastness of America. He's read and watched and had it reported, but that's all nothing like the road unspooling out mile after mile, no matter how fast he runs. A land measured in hours.

The voice calls out into the distance. Its invisible audience. 

> Searching in the sun   
For another overload...! 

A mile and a fraction, marked.

The road disappears under him.

The road disappears into the horizon.

Day or night, he can see it.

Then the violins shimmer out a suspenseful prelude. 

> I hear you singing in the wires 

The lazy heartbeat of the guitar rolls on.

The orchestra doesn't speed off, it draws out sweetness like saltwater taffy, and the singer has swung low: a secret.

Echoes of voices gone distant. 

> I can hear you through the whine 

The violins slice through in a cruel sting of honey.

They descend into a sentimental croon, as though this were an old love song. 

> And the Wichita lineman...   
is still on the line 

And suddenly an undertone of Morse code pierces his breastbone. Steve's gripping so hard that he can't make out what it's saying, a bunch of vowels, maybe, he can't make out what the message is.

Someone's counting on him, and it's gone before he can catch it.

The man in the song isn't going to get the call he's hoping for, is he. The sweetly reminiscent melody twists and turns but the guitar strums on, as unconcerned as the periodic seams of the road.

> I know I need a small vacation   
but it don't look like rain 

The voice is rueful. Smiling. The way Steve smiles, now. Half turned away.

Gaze distant. 

> And if it snows, that stretch down south won't ever stand the strain

Weight of the shield on his shoulders.

Windburn.

Weariness is for other people. He'll get back up. He can do this all day.

He can see further, now.

There's always another fight.

His nape is cold. 

> And I need you more than want you... 

Steve nearly runs off the road.

It _is_ a love song.

He's glad there's no one else sharing the highway, and then he isn't. 

> And I want you for all time 

His heart clenches in his chest.

The rush of the road is gone because he's slowed down, and the voice in his ear gaining clarity. 

> And the Wichita lineman  
is still on the line

He can't see.

The engine idles. Then dies. He's got one hand on the motorcycle so it doesn't fall over, he's on his feet.

What must be organ keys tap out the code, shrill into thin air until it's like a door closed at the telegraph office, gone, ghost letters not meant for the listener.

The orchestra plays on. 

The thrum of the bass guitar is an odd counterpoint, repeating the lyric while the violins serenade, and then a muted flare of trumpets, almost hidden, not as _bright_ but Steve is _there_ as the horn section stands up for their chorus, dancers settling their hands as the music floats them away...

A measure later the trumpets are gone. A mirage. Steve is still there. 

> And I need you more than want you
> 
> _And I want you for all time_
> 
> And the Wichita lineman
> 
> is still on the line

The refrain is a lullabye, an ache that regrets itself, that doesn't wonder if anyone is there to hear it. Each imitation dot and dash punctures his lungs, his mind is unable to decode it, his ears that can recognize a songbird from miles away are full of static. It only repeats once, but he can still hear it.

When life was short, they talked about always, about _all time_. As though they knew it. Steve didn't realize. Then.

Now. He's bent in half. Staring at the road. The syncopated chirps fade off like an afterthought, and the song wends away, twinkling, the strings playing sweetly, as though this were just another love song in a set.

There may have been the burr of other engines. There may have been a breeze on his face. He hears static; it's coming from his hand that's clutching the radio. The song was cut off. The station is on to the next one.

The static dwindles to nothing. Unusually, the dial clicks. The sounds of his own harsh breaths engulf the silence.

He looks up. There's a marker. He cannot read the number.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
